


Comatose

by goregoregirls



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bottom Dean Winchester, Creature Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Lives, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Castiel (Supernatural), outside of dean/cas, shameless communist propaganda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25042753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goregoregirls/pseuds/goregoregirls
Summary: From a young age, Dean Winchester dreamed of blue eyes, black wings, lightning and darkness. From a young age, Dean Winchester knew he was going insane.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	1. Zoanthropic Paranoia

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve had this idea for a long time now and have been writing this for a few days, and I am quite happy with how it's turning out! But please, know that I am not qualified to diagnose anyone, nor am I a psychiatrist or a therapist. Everything written here is based on my experience with therapy and my own mental illness (call this baby self-projection), so yes, this is based off of my mental illness, but if anything bothers you, please do not hesitate to talk to me so we can see this through and I can correct myself. I hope you guys enjoy this, stay safe and wear a mask! (if you have any opinion on politics I do not care)

“You said you have these dreams. Tell me about them.”

He looks everywhere. He looks at the clock hanging on the wall. It looked too clean. Too slow. He can’t bear to look into her eyes. They’ve been here for almost 15 minutes and all he did was say that he was fine, and his week was nice.

“I've had them since I can remember, I guess. There isn’t a time in my life in which I remember not dreaming about it. About him.” His words are left hanging. She waits for him to continue. “It’s... It seems very real. Like they’re memories that my brain suppressed due some trauma. Or another life. At the start, it was hard to tell reality apart from it. I went to sleep and woke up. I went straight to my mom to tell her about this guy I met. Obviously, she freaked out, since I was a kid and never left her sight or my dad's. I can only imagine her thinking some creep was talking to her little kid. It took me a little longer to realize that I was me, but I wasn’t _me_ , you know? I was there. He was talking to me, but not _kid me_ , _adult_ me.”

“And how did you react to it? What did you think, at the time?” Her narrowed eyes examined him with a puzzled expression on her face.

“I think I was 10 years old when I realized that. I was starting to read so many books, but I wasn’t interested in kid’s books, per se. I wanted to look for the... Uh... _supernatural._ I started reading science fiction, supernatural fiction, suspense and mystery. Anything I could get my hands on that involved figuring something not natural out. Then, when I turned 11, we spent winter break on my Uncle Bobby's, in Sioux Falls. The name of the city has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Anyway, my uncle, he... before he got married to Aunt Karen, he enlisted in the Army with my dad. That is how they met. When they discharged him, he decided to go to college to study English literature and some mythology. Therefore, after that, he obviously had a library in his house. Full of lore and mythology. Urban legends. I read them. I spent the whole time reading. Religious imagery, religious lore. Angels, demons. Indigenous lore, too. Skinwalkers. I never quite found what I was looking for; I didn’t even know what I was looking for.”

“You mentioned religious imagery. Tell me more about that and why exactly you looked for that.”

“So... in the dreams, I see wings. Huge black wings. But it’s not physical. Just their shadows on a wall. And because it’s a shadow, of course they’d be black, right? Except that even if I can’t _see_ them, I just _know_ they belong to this thing and it has black wings. Unnatural. an abomination between those around him. And... And he looks at me with those bright blue eyes, I mean _literally_ bright eyes. They’re shining and they’re so blue. That’s the part I start to _feel_ things. I don’t know how or why, but I feel my heart beat faster than ever and my stomach does this... this _thing_. I- I know it sounds weird. But...” He stares at his shoes, touching the ground beneath him, the black carpet standing out from the white walls. The room was wide, white and just right. It somehow felt different. The colors didn’t depress him as much as they should, they comforted him. “It just feels like I know him. I knew him. Or I should remember him. Am I crazy?”

She took a deep breath and smiled a little. Her pink lips curled upwards made her eyes gleam in sympathy. She had nice eyes.

“We don’t use that word in here, Dean. It implies that there _is_ a crazy. It’s pejorative and depreciating.” She says softly.

“Sorry. It’s force of habit.”

“And did you ever found out _what_ you should look for?”

“It took me a few years, but I did, eventually. The dream had changed. This one is more like flashbacks than anything. I found out its name. His name. First, we’re lying down together in bed. The bedroom we’re in has white walls with red stripes. The furniture is black. He... He’s no human. But he’s in my arms and – God. This is pathetic.” 

“Dean, they’re dreams. Although we sometimes have control over them, we mostly don’t, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Keep talking about it if you’re comfortable, if you’re not, we can take this to next session.”

She was very patient with him, and he’s thankful for it. He’s been coming to this therapist for about 9 weeks and they’re helping, but this is the first time he’s doing what he came here to do. To talk about his dreams.

“I can’t keep putting this off forever. Anyway... He- He’s in my arms, and we’re on the bed. The windows are open, and I can smell the rain in the air, it’s a mix of water and grass and dirt. It’s so detailed and perfect that I swear it has happened; but it never did. He has disheveled black hair; the intense blue eyes and he looks clean-shaven. He looks up and smiles at me. His canines are a little sharp. I feel my stomach clench and the _butterflies_ trying to come out and I feel so happy and content I always wake up feeling like I’ve lost something important. A memory. A lover. A life. A chance I never took, and a life I could never have because I never met him. It. I’m 27 years old. I feel like I’m losing it. I feel like I’m watching my life unfold all around me, but I’m waiting for him to show and nothing happens, and I never get involved with anyone because I’m subconsciously waiting.”

“Tell me about your childhood, how was dealing with it.”

“Normal. Until it wasn’t. honestly, in my childhood I wasn’t worried about them, I still had normal dreams. The one kids should have, like, you know, getting on a dinosaur or eating dirt that tasted like chocolate, sh- stuff like that. It was in my teenage years that everything got messed up. I started having dreams that are more intimate. Nothing sexual, and even if it was, the strange part was that he was _my age_ , he looked about the same age as me. But I started to crave the intimacy, the love, the conversations, I wanted to know why I was cursed with them.”

He laughed a little at his own naivety, but then continued. “Eventually, my parents noticed some extreme mood swings and outbursts filled with rage. Even I didn’t know I was doing it. Then, came the hypomania. I was so fucking happy for weeks, I was productive, I did homework, went out with my friends. I did everything, felt like I was on top of the world, and hated it, because I knew it would all come crashing down. It always did. After the manic episode, I’d be depressed, but not the type you can’t get out of bed, I just became dissociative and would often stay in bed for hours and had no idea. I never knew that was a problem and thought I was just being a brat.” he made a pause and took a deep breath “They decided it was time for me to go a therapist. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was 17, and by that point I was doing therapy for about three years. That’s why they took so long to diagnose me. They said it’s hard to diagnose bipolar disorder because it’s a mental illness that tries to go unnoticed or as I say, disguises itself with a lot of symptoms. I still thought I was just faking it for attention. But I was faking it even when I was alone, so I could convince myself. Lost myself in the character, y'know? They said I was lucky I could be diagnosed so soon. They said I was lucky because my parents were decent people and never once thought I was faking it and took me seriously. I agree wholeheartedly. I love my parents.”

Dean felt free, for the first time in his life. Taking the weight off his shoulders were a blessing. He looked at the clock on the wall again. It was 2:57 PM. Their session was almost over. He looked at her again and gave her an uncertain smile.

“Dean. I am so happy to see you opening up. I know that talking about your dreams have been hard, but I am glad that you are now able to create a bond of trust with me. Since you came in, you’ve been carrying yourself with a certain amount of discomfort, and I’ve noticed it is current, I would like to discuss this further. In our session next week, we’ll continue to discuss your dreams and how you feel like they’ve affected you. Cognitive behavioral therapy helps with bipolar disorder, and I hope I can be of help to you. Although we tend to focus on your emotions and behavior, it is a part of your progress to talk about traumas. I am proud of you. Until next session!”

He thanked her, his smile beaming and his cheeks hurting from smiling so much. He was having a nice week. There were no dreams and midterms were over. His students were exhausted, so he dismissed them from his class this week, but assured them he would stay in the classroom during their break in case any of them needed guidance or help. Before he started with Dr. Milton, he looked her up on a website. He knew which type of psychotherapy she performed. He knew all of them. When he was 13 (going 14) and his parents decided to take him to therapy, they did _a lot_ of research, read books on types of therapies, their approaches. He and Sam helped, of course. They decided to give a chance to CBT, and from then on, they tried to focus on a diagnosis while he was still young, so they could address the problem properly.

His week passed by uneventfully, a few students passed by his office to wish him a late happy birthday and ask questions about the midterms, and his brother called him a couple times to update him on his life at college. Sam was getting his PhD, while Dean got his last year, after years of university and so many tears shed. He took the same path his Uncle Bobby did, and got a degree in English Literature, minoring in mythology.

Dean felt that is was important to inform his therapist of his medication and the effects they have on the dreams, or his sleep itself. He made a mental note to talk to her about it next week. On Friday night, he decided to sleep a little earlier than usual, praying the dreams wouldn’t come.

_It started as it always did. He opened his eyes and kept staring up at the ceiling. The weight on his chest was constant, until it wasn’t._

_“Dean... how long have you been awake?” He heard a deep voice, almost a whisper._

_“A couple minutes.”_

_“Good morning, then, love.”_

_“Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?”_

_“I did, thank you. And you?”_

_This part was confusing for him to answer. He could never give a proper answer. He could just look at the creature above him. He was lying on top of him, their chests pressed together, only a sheet separating the rest of their bodies._

_“I... don’t know. I just know that I missed you.”_

_“I missed you, too. I don’t like spending so much time apart, but I guess I’m happy that we get to spend a few hours together, even if you have to go back and not know me.” Dean stopped breathing at that final comment. His eyes bulged out of their sockets as he looked intently at his lover, his expression softening as he saw his lover pouting._

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Dean, what? You know I don’t like being apart from you, but you’re not ready. Neither am I. I'm truly sorry that you have to be out here”_

_“That’s... out there? The real world?”_

_“How we experience reality is subjective. Technically, I am real. Oh, well, I AM real. I just haven’t found you yet.”_

_“I... I’m in Kansas.”_

_“I know, Dean. Don’t rush me.”_

_“What do you mean reality is subjective?”_

_“Everything is. History is. It isn’t linear. How we view a dictatorship in Soviet Union, how we chose to look away from United States’ blood shedding, Obama’s war crimes, the CIAs involvement in coups all around the world. It is our history, even if we are wrong. Now, the real theory is about what we perceive as objective. Although we, humans, do perceive things similarly, it might not be the same. How animals perceive it, is not the same as we do.”_

_“I wasn’t expecting quantum physics right after I woke up.”_

_“It’s more of a... philosophical debate rather than physics, Dean.”_

_“Let’s not talk about smart things right now. I’ll have to go back to be my smart self in a few hours.”_

_“You’re always your smart self"_

_“You wouldn’t know that, since we don’t actually know each other.”_

_“Don’t say it like that. I feel like you’re implying something.”_

_“I am. Kind of.”_

_“I'm looking for you. I always will. And when I do, you will know it is me. But I don’t know how many more times I can handle losing you.”_

_“That’s... deep. I think. I’m sorry.”_

_“That’s fine. It’s not your fault.”_

_He got up from the bed and stopped in front of him, sizing him up and down, feeling waves of endearment going through his body. The man wasn’t entirely built, just strong enough. He looked tanned. His eyes were still blue and his lips pink and chapped all around. He didn’t see wings._

“Tell me, how was your week?” She asked as she softly tapped her pen on her notebook.

“Uh... normal, I guess. Had another dream. Only once. I could go to work normally, without feeling anxious."

“I’m glad to hear that. How was the experience?”

“Terrifying. It’s complicated. Coming here is routine, I’m getting used to it, but not planning everything in advance makes my skin crawl and my heart beat a lot faster. I get nauseous. So, every first day of the last week of each month I make a list of everything I need to buy firsthand and which aisle of the supermarket I’ll have to go to, because believe me, I have it mapped. I feel like anxiety will eventually kill me, – anyway, once my list is ready and I’ve memorized the patterns of the aisle, and the easiest way of getting my things in order, it usually takes me a day or two, so I almost always go on Tuesdays, I go and it usually goes smoothly. This time, it was easier. I went and didn’t get nervous when someone smiled at me, I didn’t feel... awkward. It was nice.”

“Do you feel like that pattern makes you comfortable or it traps you?”

“At this point, I feel like it traps me. At the start, it was good to have a mental map of what to do, when and where. I felt calm and relieved, now I feel like if I don’t follow it, I’ll have a mental breakdown. Those are worse than panic attacks. But even if I didn’t have it, I’d still freak out.”

Dean was speaking naturally; he’d rehearsed the words in his mind, played the scene over and over again.

“And your medication?”

The million-dollar question.

“It helps. I’ve been taking Valium and Lithium. Lithium helps with the mania and Valium with the anxiety. They’ve been great, honestly. The Venlafaxine has also been helpful; I’ve been taking it for years. Since I’ve been diagnosed, actually.”

He’s not lying. Lithium has been great. The side effects were horrible, but once it settled, it was fine. He noticed the changes, and so did Hannah. He missed the days he felt invincible. Drinking in bars, hooking up with whoever would have him. Not being fragile.

He took a deep breath and continued. “I have been feeling great. I don’t feel so tired anymore. I wake up longing for fresh air and open my windows, clean the house – not obsessively anymore. But every time I sit down on my couch after a long day of work, I take my meds with some water or even soda or juice, I look at the pills and just feel this impending loss and pain like, is this the rest of my life? I’ll always spend hundreds every month to be stable, when it’s not even a guarantee? I’ll always be... sad. Unhappy. Have bad days. Feel this grey cloud raining down on me and cause me to slip back into apathy? It’s exhausting.”

“I think you’re trying to say that in the bad days you feel... lost? Overwhelmed? You might think like that, Dean, but it isn’t right. It's like trying to sabotage yourself. Do you feel like that on the good days?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought. It's not a bad thing to enjoy the good days, nor the hypomania when it comes. Turning the bad into ‘not so bad’ is a way to start coping. You've been dealing with it for so long, you’ve eventually came to terms with your temporary limitations, although I don’t like to call it that. You respect your own boundaries, and that is how we work them through time. But on the bad days? It's normal to think like that. You've dealt it for so long, wondering if it will ever stop is ok. You are _not_ your mental illness.”

“But it is a part of me. A part of who I am. I've lost myself somewhere between the thin line of ‘is it me being me or is it the mental illness making me act like this?’ I used to hate thinking about that when I was angry and did some shitty things. I used to say so many... cruel and vile things to people I swore to love and never hurt.”

Hannah studied him carefully, stopped with the tapping on her notebook to put her hands on her knees, smiling at him. A comprehension smile.

“We can find your personality. We can find who you are. At this point, I'm sure you know that although you may have acted out of anger because of it, you shouldn’t use it as an excuse. It's hard to read between the lines, especially when you _know_ someone mentally ill. It's ok to say ‘I’m sorry I acted this way. I'm working to get better.’ they’ll try to be understanding of you and more patient.”

“It was worse, way back.”

_Dean made his through the bar, looking at the locals and some new faces smiling their way through what looked like tequila shots. Tourists, he thought. Shrugging off, he shot the bartender a flirty smile and winked at him. The man was nicely built, blue eyes met his green ones. His black leather jacket looked out of place in the Lawrence summer, but who was he to judge?_

_Dean ordered beer and looked around, waiting to find an interesting face among the crowd. When he looked outside, he caught a glimpse of electrifying blue eyes, but it was gone as fast as it came. He frowned, drinking a sip of his beer. He wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol with his meds. Which is why he hadn’t taken them in the last two days. He planned ahead. If mom knew, she’d slap him. The Roadhouse didn’t usually play music, but today Ellen was feeling adventurous, he guessed. ‘Dancing with Myself’ was playing loudly in the background, some regulars laughing as they drank their night away. He was suddenly feeling a little out of place, anxiety crawling through his throat. He tried to shrug it off, letting the alcohol make its course through his system. He thought of him again, as he usually did. The creature, or whatever it was. He tried not to let it consume his thoughts, or he’d spend the entire night feeling haunted. Hunted. He didn’t find anyone good enough in the crowd._

_He ordered a vodka shot. Downed it in one go._

_He stood at the bar, trying not to isolate himself in a booth. He saw Jo approaching and smiled softly at her._

_“Hey, Losechester.” she said smiling at him._

_“Hi, Jo.”_

_“College life treating you right?”_

_“It’s not. It's terrible and I'm homesick most of the time.”_

_“Figures. That’s why Ash dropped out. Didn’t get a job, though”_

_Ash was Ellen’s “tenant”. Not really, since he didn’t pay to actually_ live _in the bar, but he somehow makes some money to keep buying everyone drinks. He had a mullet and wore plaids, which made him look a little scrawnier than he really was. He was also smart as hell. Reminded him of Charlie._

_“And you think I will? In this economy?”_

_“No politics, dipshit. Been hearing enough, you fucking commie.”_

_“And don’t wear it out!” He laughed, feeling lighter than before. He didn’t know if it was because of the alcohol or because Jo made him comfortable. He hoped for the latter._

_“If you’re drinking, I suppose you didn’t take your meds.”_

_“Don’t tell your mom”_

_“Hey, I'm no tattletale. But maybe don’t drink too much”_

_“I won’t. I'm here to feel a little normal.”_

_“I understand, but for fuck's sake stop hooking up with my regulars and not calling them back!”_

_“Hey! It’s been months since I’ve done that!”_

_“Wow. That must be a personal record of yours.” She said smiling sarcastically._

_“Rude, for one thing.”_

_“Yeah, yeah, asshole. I gotta get back to work. Holler if you need me.”_

_“Sure, jerk.”_

_He ordered another beer and just sat on the bar stool and contemplated his options. He could pick someone and just make out or fuck, if he was lucky, or just sit quietly sipping his beer. Both options were very nice. He chose none._

_Behind him, he heard some commotion and yelling. He turned around, leaving his beer on the stool and went after the boy (Kid? Man? Teenager?) that was yelling. As he got closer, he could hear the boy clearly saying “stop” and “no”. There was this huge guy trying to take a boy, who couldn’t be a day older than 20, to the bathroom. No one was doing anything, and Ellen wasn’t here. Jo was in the kitchen, and with the music playing, she probably couldn’t hear much._

_“What the hell is happening here?”_

_The guy looked at him up and down, smirked and turned to the boy again. He looked like he’d seen better days. He wore jeans, ripped on the knees; his shirt had a logo he didn’t recognize._

_“None of your business, blondie”_

_“Creative nickname. Did you come up with it on your own?”_

_The bar was now silent, everyone staring at them._

_He continued, “Leave the kid alone. He’s quite literally yelling ‘No’. I’d say that’s a red flag”_

_“And_ you’re _gonna stop me?”_

_“I will.”_

_The guy laughed. A scorn laugh, as if he knew he’d win. He wouldn’t. Dean wouldn’t call himself a fighter, but he could handle himself. Too late, he thought as he felt the first punch hit his jaw, the pain tingling through his whole body. Everyone kept quiet, too shocked to even do anything. Fine, he thought, if it’s gonna be this way, let it. His lip was split, but it didn’t hurt too much. His mouth filled with blood from his lip and from the inside of the cheek he was biting. He took a long look at the guy, took a deep breath and laughed out loud. “You have no idea how long I waited for this”, he said as he got closer to the guy and punched him right on the nose, feeling the bones breaking under his knuckles._

_The guy stumbled after the punch, and Dean took the chance to push him to the ground, sitting on the guy’s legs, and punching him again. This time on the jaw. Then another, on the cheek. The man had a painful expression on his face, twisted with anger, as blood flowed from his nose. Dean laughed again, and got close to the guy’s face, next to his ear._

_“Do you_ want _me to keep going?” he asked._

_“No” the guy said breathlessly._

_“Then I won’t. You see how easy it is to accept it when someone tells you ‘no’?”_

_The guy looked even more pissed, but contained himself, only nodding. That was the exact moment Jo came bursting through the kitchen door, holding a shotgun._

_“What the FUCK is going on here? Dean? What the fuck are you doing?”_

_Dean looked at his hands and noticed the bloody fist. His shirt had blood in it. He sobered up immediately, then got up and turned to Jo._

_“He couldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. So, I taught him to value boundaries and consent.” He smiled at Jo and went to the bathroom._

_The clean mirror – too clean – showed his face in front of him, and he was surprised the blood had dripped from his lips and his teeth had some. He looked like a creature straight out of hell. He opened the faucet, took some water and splashed it on his face, closing his eyes for a few seconds, trying to calm down._

_When he opened his eyes, he looked in the mirror, seeing_ it _behind him. Seeing him, in a dirty trench coat, with a full beard and dirty face, looking straight at him from behind his back, with a sad and confused expression on his face. He blinked, scared. When he opened his eyes again, the man was gone._

He breathed in and out, calmly recomposing himself. He told the story, not leaving out any part of the fight. Hannah looked at him with an understanding gaze, and he thinks he doesn’t deserve it.

“After I came out of the bathroom, the kid approached me and thanked me. He looked relieved and calm. His name was Samandriel. Jo was pissed because the guy threatened to sue, but everyone threatened to call the cops on him for sexual harassment. She sure didn’t appreciate the violence, but she wasn’t mad at me.”

“You mentioned how you said you had been waiting for that a long time, yes? Why?”

“Oh, uh… that. Yes. I kind of wanted a reason to… just let my anger roam freely through me. I just didn’t think it would actually happen. I didn’t even want to fight, but no one was doing anything, and it pissed me off. The kid was just about to get raped and no one moved a muscle! They’d rather look the other way than actually _stop it_ from happening. What was up with that?” Dean could hear his voice raising, but he couldn’t stop it. He felt the turmoil inside his chest, mixed with anguish. “It could be _anyone_ , we just had to be thankful the dude still hadn’t lost his patience and took Samandriel someplace else. How fucked up is _that_? Be thankful that the aggressor wasn’t in a hurry or I wouldn’t have listened?”

He didn’t know where to go from there. He just kept staring at his shoes, avoiding his therapist’s gaze. He took a breath and said what has been haunting him for years: “I think that what hurt me the most back then is that, even with my meds, I still had anger outbursts because we hadn’t found a medication that worked specifically for that. But everyone thought that that _monster_ I was, was the real me, and no one questioned it. If I were cruel, they’d just say, ‘oh, that’s just Dean. That’s how and who he is, now’. Don’t get me wrong, my family was very understanding, but if I was still angry, it was probably because I was an asshole, not because of my condition; and they didn’t believe me because I was _already_ on medication.”

“It is beyond their comprehension. They can’t see the physical signs of how it affects you unless you self-harm, for an example. Until it’s too late. They expect it to be gray. They expect to find you too big or too thin, with bags under your eyes, when they’re filled with sadness. No one knows how to _talk_ with someone who is depressed. They’ll point out all the good things in your life, and just _how much_ they love you. As if you do not know it or chooses to forget it deliberately. They don’t see the physical pain, nor the anger beneath it. The exhaustion and impatience disguised as anger.”

He nodded at her, letting the words sink into his brain. Looking at the clock, he realized their session had ended. It was about time, he thought.

“I'll see you next week, Dr.”

“Have a nice week, Dean.”

Dean left feeling lighter, yet, still nervous. He didn’t hide the fight from her, nor what he had said. But he had hidden the dream he had _after_ the fight, and he was feeling guilty. He felt like he might burst if he didn’t tell her the truth. He turned around and went back to the clinic.

He burst through the door of her office, “Please tell me you’re not busy.”

She had her eyes wide open, a little spooked from his sudden entrance. “No, Dean. I was just about to go home, but of course I have a few moments to spare.”

Dean let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and smiled. He sat down again and got a little _too_ comfortable.

“I’m so sorry for barging in like this, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t tell you. But that night, I had a dream, a different one.” He breathed deeply.

_He was falling. He knew he was falling; he felt his body fighting gravity, the wind roaming through his hair, but he felt safe. He opened his eyes, watching the nothing that surrounded him swallow his body into it, the night was dark – no stars, no moon. There was nothing, and it scared him. The abyss below him screamed silence in his ears, he felt deafened by it. He blinked and when he opened his eyes again, he saw wings. Huge, and as black as the night wings. He felt strong arms grab him by his arm and his torso, as goosebumps traveled through his body. He closed his eyes and silently prayed. He was flying, now. The creature’s hands pulled him in, his back was against its chest. When he opened his eyes, they were on the ground, safe. He could no longer see wings. Just Castiel, now, in his normal meatsuit. And he looked mad. His eyes were narrowed, showing Dean a side of him he had never seen; a hardened, colder one. One from someone who knew too much._

_“Why do you do this to yourself?” Castiel asked, looking at him expectantly. “There could be hell to pay when you wake up.”_

_“I’m aware. Come on, tell me he didn’t deserve it!”_

_“It is_ not _about who deserves what, Dean, it’s about responsibility! Who do you think you are? A vigilante? You’re a pathetic excuse of one! You’re human, you’ve barely just got old enough to drink, that man could have ripped you in half.”_

_“But he didn’t, Cas! He got what he deserved.”_

_“Was it to feel better about yourself? You think you can serve justice with your own hands?”_

_“Oh, cry me a fucking river, Cas. Don’t come at me with that bullshit about justice being served with my own hands being wrong. By the time the cops got there the kid would already be traumatized enough, and that is IF the cops didn’t question what he was doing there and if he tried saying ‘no’. You think the cops care about kids in bars having fun while having a goddamn drink? You think the first thing they’d ask wouldn’t be ‘why were you drinking in the first place? Go home’? Fuck you. You think you’re oh so wise, yet you still try to feed me this bullshit about justice.” Dean looked furious, and Cas even more._

_“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_“Fuck off, fuck off, fuck OFF. You think karma will come? It can fuck me in the ass, then, see if I care. Some situations ask for ‘shoot first, ask questions later’. I don’t give a shit if you’re on some guilt trip over your past, that’s your own goddamn problem. Don’t bring me into it. Not everyone deserves a chance to explain themselves, not in situations like that. You think he can just ‘Hey, I’m sorry I tried to sexually assault you, I’m trying to grow as a person’ out of it? Not everyone deserves redemption, specially people like him.”_

_With every word, Dean had gotten closer to Castiel, they were inches away from each other._

_“And if you’re real and as old as you say you are, you should have learned that by now, Castiel. If you didn’t, knock yourself out, go read something, but don’t come see me while you still think like that. It’s not about wanting to do that, it’s because you know no one else would.”_

“That was the most vivid dream I’ve ever had. And that’s when I started to doubt if he was even real. I swore he existed, but just in my head.”

After he confessed it, he felt better, if not a bit crazier than before. Admitting to it made it real, made it true, and even if he wanted Castiel to be real, he couldn’t do more than hope.


	2. The Killing Moon Will Come Too Soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm a nice person, I (badly) wrote some smut for you. I hope you guys have a nice week and keep taking care of yourselves. I added a chapter, so now it will be 4 in total, because I feel like there will be a lot to be explained between them. Don't give up on me just yet, and I love validation, so thank you everyone that left kudos!! Enjoy it, and if you have any questions, you can talk to me on the comments, also Sunday will be my birthday, but the gift is this new chapter to you guys. Love you guys.

The next few days, he felt relaxed and even motivated. He wasn’t used to feeling like this, these days. Classes were back on track at full force, and they’ve started on a few subjects already. He was proud of his students. 

Sam called a few times, so did his mom. He felt better, he said. He wasn’t lying, not this time. He was still a little numb, but he was getting better. He looked at the time on his phone and took his pills out, taking one at a time. Every time he took them, he felt bad. Like he was a fake and he had to force his brain to function properly. Negative thoughts aside, he swallowed them with water and got back to reading his students’ dissertations. They were getting a lot better on developing the subject, and he took a moment to feel proud of himself – as a treat. 

Although the bad days were getting more frequent, he still tried to stay positive. With little to no success. Yet, here he was. Alive at 26. After years of battling depression, he had yet to find hope that someday, he wouldn’t have to. He wouldn’t wake up feeling guilty, or heavy, or tired, and the worst, angry. Angry at himself, at the world, at his brain, at his stupid dreams about someone who isn’t real. But that he let himself be hopeful for. Everything always happens so much. 

Being home wasn’t as lonely. There was always something pulling him there, to his bed, where he could just stay and quite literally, dream. Rain started to pour a few hours ago and gave no sign of stopping any time soon. The power was out, so he lay in bed just thinking. He counted back the days he had more time to just think about Castiel and wonder what any of it could mean. His body longed for Castiel, but he couldn’t know why. He longed for his scent, his warmth and the body that would lay beside him. Although it felt like he was always waiting to collapse due to his insanity, he still felt, he still hoped, waited. A lot of times he asked himself what he could possibly have done to deserve the living nightmare that whole situation was. And if it was real, why was he special? Why does he get to see his life in his sleep and be in love with someone as ethereal as Castiel? 

It never made sense to him. 

He stayed on his bed for what felt like ages while rain poured down outside, the noise calming him down as he drifted to sleep. 

_He was awake again staring at him. His hair was disheveled, black as the night, and his beard was growing. His blue eyes were locked on his face, wild like an ocean, leaving Dean feeling like he might drown._

_Castiel’s smile was almost shy, he looked happy. A dirty, old, trench coat (‘Technically, it’s an overcoat, Dean’) covered his frame, his suit underneath looked clean, at least. Dean watched like a movie. He had given something to Castiel. A present, maybe? He didn’t know. He knew Cas was very happy, his nose crinkled from smiling and it was cute. His ocean eyes were shining, they pulled him in. How could his mind have created something so mesmerizing with beauty? A person so warm, so loyal and giving. He didn’t deserve it. Maybe that’s why he dreamed of it – because he could never have it. Castiel was closer, now. Dean could feel the warm breath ghosting over his lips._ _So, he kissed him._

_Castiel didn’t have a specific taste. He just tasted like saliva, and that was that. But he had a scent, an earthy smell, mixed with a cologne he knew well, but could never name. Dean slowly opened his mouth to let Cas in, and as soon as he did, their tongues touched, and Dean knew that if he was standing up, his legs might have given out. Castiel’s chapped lips pressed against his soft ones as they kissed. He felt Cas’s hand on his cheek, as if to hold him in place if he were to fall. His hands were on Castiel’s neck, keeping him close, so close that he could feel their chests pressed up against each other; his heartbeat making its presence known from how fast it was. Castiel’s erection pressed against his. Christ, he was about to burst. Castiel wasted no time getting on top of him. He took off Dean’s shirt and his own, leaving both only in their boxers, with Dean almost begging for friction. Cas began to press more against him._

_He stopped the kiss to breathe calmly, taking one long look at Cas; he looked absolutely wrecked. They kissed again. This time, Dean didn’t know who started it. He just knew he didn’t want to stop. The heat was growing, their bodies tangled tightly together. Cas grabbed his ass, giving it a firm squeeze, before shoving him into a wall (one he didn’t know was there, but fine)._

_Cas then looked at him intensely, smirking. His red lips were shiny from their saliva, a little swollen. Castiel slowly roamed his hands through all of Dean’s body, calmly taking one of his nipples in his mouth and sucking it. His tongue flicked on it. His hand went inside Dean’s underwear and stroked him too slowly for Dean’s liking. Suddenly, he stopped everything and left Dean waiting, confused. He opened his eyes as Castiel got down on his knees, his hands taking off Dean’s underwear. Dean wanted to die with so much lust. Castiel was goddamn smiling at him, a happy-confident-I-know-you-want-to-fuck-my-mouth smile. Their eyes were locked when Castiel broke the silence, taking his hand as close as he could to Dean’s mouth. “Spit, love.” Dean did._

_Cas then spread the spit around Dean’s shaft, stroking it lazily enough to leave Dean burning with desire. Castiel opened his mouth and licked the head, pressing his tongue against the slit, slowly taking him entirely inside his mouth. His mouth was warm and wet, the heat emanating from Castiel’s tongue was going to kill him, he was sure of it, and that’s when Cas swallowed around him, starting to bob his head as he sucked and pressed his tongue insistently under his dick. He grabbed Castiel’s hair, tugging at it gently, moving his hand along with Castiel’s head, when he pulled away._

_“You can fuck my mouth and pull my hair, Dean. I’m not going to break.”_

_Dean looked at Castiel’s lips, slick with spit and smiled. He put his hand on Cas’ cheek, caressing his lip with his thumb, opening his mouth, while the other hand guided his dick slowly into Cas’ mouth. When he was wholly inside his mouth, Dean breathed in deeply and started to move his hips, one hand now tugging his hair holding his head in place. If he could speak, he’d tell Cas how amazing his mouth was. How beautiful he looked with a dick in his mouth, how beautifully stretched his lips looked wrapped around him, how incredible he was, how he made Dean a mess all the time. But this wasn’t real life, and all Dean could do was feel._

_So, he kept fucking Cas’s mouth roughly, getting so close to coming, but never actually being able to. Some tears fell from Cas’s eyes since he choked a few times, and when he tried to stop moving, Castiel didn’t let him. His eyes were so goddamn blue, Dean might drown. Cas tried to smile at him, and when he did, his tongue pressed against the right vein and Dean was just about to come._

Until he woke up. 

It was the 28th, a Friday night. He felt the cold wind breeze through his curtains. As he laid awake, agonizing over his persistent erection, the moonlight came from his window, lighting up a big part of his room. He wanted to die. He wanted to die from the sexual frustration, how pathetic was that? The house creaked beneath him, the wind howling, and the trees creating shadows on his floor. There were not many stars tonight, he noticed. 

He got up and went to the kitchen – ignoring the tent inside his underwear –, slowly walking through the long corridors. The moonlight followed him through the house. Weird. 

The moon was full. 

It was a nice night, he thought. 

He poured coffee on his mug and decided to go on his porch. Dean didn’t know why he bought a house in the middle of nowhere; he just felt compelled to. He felt like it should belong to him, like it was always meant to be his. Also, he got it for a nice price. It was a two-story house; the walls were painted black, the stairwell creaked in just the right way. Fine, it was a little _goth_ and Dean went through a phase. In his twenties. Sue him. 

He had a couple neighbors, they weren’t too far away; if he needed help, he could easily get it, but if he needed privacy, he’d sure have it. 

Although the wind was chilly, he didn’t feel very cold. This part of town had many lakes and woods, so he got used to the constant wind. He sat on his chair and just looked at the moon, drinking his coffee. He let Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘(Don’t Fear) The Reaper’ play in the background. 

Maybe he should adopt a dog. 

In the distance, he heard a wolf howling. The wind blew harder, the whooshing sound getting heavier in his ears, as the trees moved along to it. He felt his skin crawl as his neck bristled. His fingers pressed the mug a little too hard. He refused to get up, it was just the wind. 

Until it wasn’t. 

He could feel its presence before he saw it. He felt the air grow ethereal, colder. His mouth tasted like copper. The metallic taste filled his mouth, making him dizzy and nauseous. The _smell, god, the smell._ It didn’t exactly have one, you couldn’t _feel it_ , you just _knew it_ , but couldn’t pinpoint it. It just came to your nose, but you could not name it. 

Then, he saw it. 

It was a black and blue figure, standing still in the distance. The glowing blue came from the eyes. Yet, it still looked like a shadow. Entirely black. It was too far away for him to make out any other details. He should get up. He should go inside and lock the doors, pray one Our Father and go to bed. He could hear his catholic guilt begging him for a Hail Mary on his knees. 

_Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth, as it is in heaven._

He stopped and noticed it was closer, now, yet, it hadn’t moved; he still couldn’t make out any details. Dean didn’t know if he should move, nor if he _could._ He felt like his body was frozen, his blood and muscles had turned to stone. He was stiff as a board, and the entity looked as light as a feather. Any moment now it could start narrating how Dean would die. 

Every time he blinked, it got slightly closer. Dean was trying his hardest not to and failing. As he stared, it seemed like the world had stopped altogether; the wind was still blowing, only, he couldn’t hear it. The leaves from the trees were still swinging; the tree branches still moved, but the world was static. All he could focus on was that _thing_. 

He thought of Nietzsche. If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you. 

_Abyss_ wasn’t enough to describe it. 

It wasn’t malevolent, Dean didn’t feel like it was. It was neutral, ethereal, _alive_ . Undead. He didn’t want to close his eyes, but he didn’t want to keep them open. It was too real, too close. But then again, he switched medication, he had a mental illness, he could easily be hallucinating. _God_ , how he wanted to be. Being crazy is easier when you’ve accepted that you are a long time ago. 

He blinked again. The thing took another step, it stepped on a branch. It kept walking towards him, as he counted to ten in his mind. Each second was a step, he could now hear the dry leaves crunching under its feet. Slowly, it made its way to him. 

_You will know it is me._

And he did, now. 

He still couldn’t help but feel a little scared. Until a few years ago, he could swear it was all in his head. His mental illness had finally taken over. 

Until he let it. 

It was getting colder by the second and it was still far enough for him to run away. he had no urge to do it, even if he was scared. He was stuck to the ground. 

As it got closer, the more Dean knew what it was. _Who it was._

There was no doubt. 

The full moon was still shining above them, illuminating everything around. Dean, now, had a smile on his face. A small smile, but still there. 

He was getting closer now, Dean could see the glowing blue eyes and the black surrounding him were nothing but clothes, and a black trench coat. 

Silence is hung in the air, tense, palpable. He was even closer now. Dean closed his eyes and counted to ten. He counted slowly, no rush to get to ten. 

_One._

The leaves kept crunching. 

_Two._

He heard a branch snap. 

_Three._

A new step. 

_Four._

Another step. 

_Five._

He heard ragged breathing. 

_Six._

He wasn’t hearing steps anymore. 

_Seven._

The wind got louder. 

_Eight._

The nocturnal insects were back. 

_Nine_. 

Nothing. 

_Ten._

He opened his eyes. The woods were far away, but not that he couldn’t see the trees and how _empty_ everything looked with nothing between them. There was no one in front of him. He was alone. 

_Are you there, God? It’s me, Dean Winchester. So, yeah, are you fucking with me?_

There were no words that could describe the hollowness in his chest, the churning in his stomach right now. He’d schedule an emergency appointment with Hannah tomorrow. He had to. 

He turned around and went back to his house, numb to the upcoming storm. That night he didn’t dream again. 

The next few days, he felt numb. He didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t schedule the appointment, no one would want to listen to a nutjob. No one should be obligated to. 

Since it was getting closer to summer, he was getting ready for final terms, he wouldn’t want it to be too hard for his students. He had never a parent complaint on his job and his teaching method. Everyone always had something nice to say about him and how good on his subject his students were. He was very attentive to his students, he knew high school was a tough time, so making studying become a chore would be worse to these kids. The system was already too fucked up. 

He sat down on his desk, starting to elaborate questions for the test, as his phone started to ring. It was Sam’s ringtone. 

“Yes?” 

_“You answer your phone saying ‘yes’. This feels so chaotic.”_

“Stop judging. This way I never get people’s names wrong, bitch.” 

_“You’re using a smartphone. It has contacts in it. Their names show up on the screen, Dean.”_

“Yeah, what about it?” 

_“Jerk.”_

Silence stood on the line. 

“Sam… why are you calling? This doesn’t feel like a ‘hey, how are you?’ call.” 

_“Dean. How have you been? You haven’t been answering your texts. We just get worried.”_

“I’m fine, Sammy. Just been busy with finals and grading assignments. You know I always get busy this time of year. This isn’t why you called.” 

_“It is, jerk. You hadn’t called mom back, so she went to talk to dad about it, so he talked to me. Why are you avoiding them?”_

“Sam, I love you. You know that. But maybe, just maybe, I have a job and I teach teenagers, remember? I'm always busy. I meant to call them this weekend on FaceTime.” 

_“Sure. Fine, then. Call them, and I won’t be on your ass all the time.”_

“Yeah, yeah. When are you coming home?” 

Home. He didn’t know if _his_ home was the same as Sam’s. 

_“I’m almost done. Sometime next month, maybe. Can Eileen come?”_

“If I knew who Eileen was, sure.” 

_“She’s a... friend. Or something.”_

“Nice. Yes, of course she can come.” 

_“Cool... cool.”_

Dean could almost _hear_ the bitchface Sam was making because he wanted to ask something he shouldn’t. “Ask away, Sammy.” 

Sam sniffed. _“So, how’s therapy going?”_

“It’s good. Great, actually. I think Hannah is very good with her method, so... I've been getting better. That what you wanted to hear?” 

_“I want to hear the truth, Dean”_

“I’m serious. I've been good. scared I'm gonna scare your new girlfriend?” 

_“Dean, no. I worry, sometimes. Uh, anyway, I gotta go now. Mom is trying to skype me. Please, call her too.”_

“I will, Sammy. I'm sorry for... worrying you or whatever. I’m here for anything you need. Anything, you hear me?” 

_“I know, Dean. I love you. See you next month.”_

“Love you, too, little brother. Bye” 

Dean hung up his phone and stared at the clock in it. 3 PM and he was still at the school, grading the assignments. Time is a social construct, but geez, it is a pain in the ass, Dean thinks as he corrects the essays. 

The assignment was simple enough; the kids were supposed to write about their favorite _something_ – it could be a person, a book, a song, anything. He thought that when they did something they enjoyed; they’d learn in an easier way. He should have seen it coming, really. He assigned them a childish task, he received childish writing. He didn’t know what went wrong, they were doing just fine with the other assignments, writing like real people. Now, did they _enjoy_ writing about Shakespeare? Mark Twain? And the worst of all, George Orwell? God, he had no idea how he could ever have read that dude’s work – they were _terrible_ . Thank God those kids didn’t have to read Hannah Arendt, Dean thought. No one deserves to go through _that_ torture. 

And he realized he had stopped paying attention thinking of other things. Great. 

Sometimes, he regretted becoming a high school teacher, but it’s not like he hadn’t had the chance to become a professor and have a PhD. He just wanted to help young minds. A noble cause, his brother had said, when he was on his way to becoming a lawyer. He shouldn’t have listened to that little shit. Back to grading. He couldn’t believe how these kids could talk so much about their favorite _video game_ . What the fuck is a _Fortnite_? Wait. Apparently, it wasn’t a video game. It was a PC game, online. Dean still didn’t know what it was. He’d ask Sam later. 

Moving on, he did the best he could to keep up with the youth, and sometimes, he really wished he didn’t. They always moved to the next thing way too fast – ‘Dean, maybe you shouldn’t use social network to look for memes to create a bond and relate to your students. It makes you look _weird_ .’ His brother had said –, and he didn’t want to look _that_ old, anyway. He was just fine using text messages apps to talk to his family when they needed him. Also, when Jo and Charlie started tagging him in some embarrassing old pics from their teenage years when he _knew_ some students looked him up on social media, he knew it was time to give it up. Or that was his poor excuse. 

Now, he felt like a goddamn _boomer_. 

He was bored out of his mind. Dean loved to listen to people talking about the things they loved, it was always cute to see them rambling, but he had approximately 200 hundred students, 33 being in this class, so it had to become exhausting at some point. When he was finally done, he got to one that piqued his interest. It was about music. Not one specific genre, just music in general. It was from Anael Novak. 

_“(…) I like music, always did. It has always been a constant fixation of mine and my family’s, too. There is always a song playing in the background. It goes from blues to rock, from rock to punk, punk to pop, so it goes. It’s always been like that, since I can remember. On family gatherings (a rare occurrence nowadays), you can even wait for your turn to pick a song. I always choose something quite cheery, any synth pop, really. Mom chooses the good old blues. My uncle, Cas, picks rock, and borderline melancholic songs. My point is: songs are nice when everyone actually listens to it.”_

He didn’t know what he expected. It was kind of basic, too. But at least, it was better than others. Not that he’d actually tell that to his students. Heh, her uncle’s name was Cas. 

It was going to be a long day. 

When finals came, he spent nights awake grading tests and papers, he was too exhausted to dream. Everything got hazy after a few weeks of running after his schedules, along with parent/teacher conference and meetings with the school faculty. Anael’s parents didn’t show up. They never did, so he doesn’t know why this time he expected it to be different. Anyhow, life went on and he had no time. His mom and dad called. So did his brother. He wasn’t feeling very well, meds weren’t helping very much, due to so much stress. 

He felt hopeless again; if there ever was a time in which he didn’t feel that way. When he was home, he didn’t feel alone. He felt a presence and it bothered him, it bothered him _so much_ . He felt suffocated, he wanted it to leave, he wanted to be _alone,_ at peace. It hurt. It hurt a lot. 

He couldn’t be alone, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe, and it got too loud, everything was pissing him off. 

He couldn’t be alone, in his own home. The one he made for himself. 

He couldn’t simply _be_. 

He sat on his bed, staring at the ceiling, holding back the tears and trying so hard to breathe slowly, calmly, through his nose, but he couldn’t _not_ feel the presence, and it bothered him, it angered him, he wanted to scream, to _hit, to hurt_ something, someone. Himself, as it was hurting him. 

His knees trembled along with his hands, his body crumbled, ruins took over once again and the flame died. He screamed. He cried. His chest started to hurt as he suffocated inside his own skin, no one to help him, to calm him through it. The presence that suffocated him, had left him. As he struggled to breathe, he got up and looked for his anxiety meds, but it was too late. He knew it was. He hated it, hated every minute of his existence, of his life and his fucked-up brain, he had no way of running from it. He couldn’t just kill himself and hope for the best. He hated his mom for not giving up, he hated his dad for telling him that this would be over soon, and he hated Sam for always being there to support him, but he hated them all so much for making him go through life and not letting him give up. They were selfish. He hated every one of them, he hated them _so much_. 

So, he sat down on the ground and cried, cried for hours, tears of sadness, of anger, of everything that went right before everything went to _shit._ His chest hurt; his breathing wouldn’t return to normal. He couldn’t pick a better time to crumble down. At least semester was over. 

He wasn’t going to be happy. He never would be. He’d forever be this broken, ill, vile thing. He’d always want to die. There wasn’t a day in his life in which he didn’t regret not dying when he had the chance. Sadness was overwhelming, it always was. So, he let it wash over him, the desperation would soon leave. 

When he finally calmed down, he took a deep, long breath and kept crying, he let the tears continue rolling down his face. He hated every minute of it. Now, he felt even worse. He always felt bad after these things happened, wondering how he could have every thought those kinds of things. He calls it The Other Dean; it’s the only way he can describe it. He felt so tired. Other Dean tired him out, exhausted his body, left his hands to tremble. It was still 5 PM, but he decided to sleep anyway. He laid down on his mattress, letting the warmth and comfort wash over him, as tiredness took him away. 

When he woke up, it was dark out. He looked at his phone, seeing it was 2 AM. He needed a cigarette. He went directly to his porch, picking up his pack and lighter. He sat down on the small steps and lit up a stick, bringing it to his lips. He looked around him, feeling the cold air prickle his skin. It was the full moon again; but this time, the air wasn’t filled with tension. It was pure, calm. Crickets could be heard, so did owls and bats. No wolves. This month, he hadn’t dreamt of Castiel. Not even once. He was tired. 

He couldn’t focus on anything anymore, but at least he was still able to reply to his family messages so they wouldn’t worry. Sam was coming next week. His brother was still a wreck, he was glad his mom was able to stay a few weeks with him. He honestly didn’t know how he’d hide his insanity from his brother. Not that he’d need to; Sam knew what happened to him, he had told him when Sam was old enough to understand why he’d sometimes wake up sad. 

He wanted to dream again, he wanted to go back to Castiel, their place, the world he’d built inside his head, their eternity together. He knew that Castiel would always wait for him there, would always be there, smiling and promising sweet nothings to him. 

Monday found him sitting inside his classroom drinking coffee silently as he read a book after classes. It had been a calm day; students weren’t giving him any trouble or being loud. In fact, everyone was tired and sleepy. He talked to them about their assignments, how he enjoyed reading each one of them and they had improved in their writing; then they were dismissed. Dean still hadn’t found the courage to get up and go home, deciding to finish passing the grades on to the school faculty once and for all, so he could be free to hang out with his brother with no worries. While he wrote, he heard a knock on his classroom door. 

“It’s open.” 

Slowly his door opened, revealing a woman behind it. She had red hair, the length a little past her shoulders, a green jacket and a white shirt under it with plain, blue jeans. Her smile looked kind, yet very out of place, he thought. She came in and closed the door behind her, looking directly at him. 

“Mr. Winchester, I assume?” 

“You assumed right. Hi, I’m Dean. How can I help you?” 

“I’m here about Anael. I’m her aunt. I’m Anna.” 

“Oh? Have a seat, please.” 

She looked down to the chair in front of his desk, and gladly took the seat. 

“So, you are aware that we don’t have the most… conventional family. I’m the one taking care of her. temporarily, of course. Her parents are always traveling.” 

“She told me.” 

Silence stretched uncomfortably between them, as Anna looked at her own hands on her lap. She lifted her eyes to his face once again and smiled. “I came here because I couldn’t come on the parent/teacher conference. Sorry about that, by the way. My brother, Cas-” she stopped abruptly and coughed. “Sorry. My brother was supposed to come, but you know how it goes. How is Anael going?” 

“She’s actually doing good. She always does what she’s supposed to, although nowadays she doesn’t interact much like she used to.” 

Anna doesn’t seem very impressed. “Does she smoke here?” 

Dean looked at her, eyes widened as he looked a little uncomfortable. Geez, what do you say in this situation? “Uh... I've never seen it. I don’t usually, uh, walk around the school.” 

Anna’s eyes narrowed, but she seemed to accept his answer. “You’d tell me if you knew, right? She _is_ a minor, Mr. Winchester.” 

“Ms. Novak, there’s a lot of... bad crowds in here. Every school is bound to have one, sure, they smoke, but they are respectful and don’t bother anyone, as far as I know. I do smell the cigarettes, but I'm also a smoker – not my best habit – but, what can you do? I swear, if I could give you a better answer, I would. I don’t like to point fingers, but I try to be supportive of my students through the good and bad. I’ve been where they are now, so I worry. If anything bad happens to her, I'd feel responsible, but the school would tell you right away.” 

“Good. I'm sorry to disrupt your work like I did, but sometimes we have no choice. Thank you, Dean. I'm glad Anael has a good teacher around here.” 

“You can come anytime. It's very important to me that the family is aware of what goes on.” 

“I’ll see what I can do about her being a little weird with friends and teachers. Have a good day, and thank you so much for your time.” 

She got up from the chair and put it back on its place, smiling down at him. “Dean... you are even humbler than the stories make you out to be.” She said calmly as she stopped at the door before closing it after her. 

Dean didn’t know what to do with that information. He didn’t even know people talked about him that frequently. Deciding enough was enough, Dean carefully put his papers on his folder, placing it inside his bag and making his way out. When he got to his car, he noticed Anna still on the parking lot, inside her car, looking straight at him as he left the school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I hate liberalism yet?


	3. You Drew Stars Around My Scars, But Now I'm Bleeding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writer's block is a fucking BITCH. thank you so much for the kudos and comments, i love validation so much and i love you! this chapter is a little shorter, and i added another one to the fic (sorry), but this one is kinda ok, i guess, sorry about it guys :(  
> anyway stream folklore, it gave me the push i needed to write the bare minimum.  
> also, trigger warning for mentions of self harm scars, so beware. (if you have any trouble with it, let me know!)

A river flowed through the path – one he didn’t have to follow. The water was clear, transparent, and seemingly free of fishes. It wasn’t flowing violently; there almost wasn’t any current to begin with. He could feel the wind piercing through his skin, could hear the leaves moving on top of him, the crunch beneath his feet. Everything was green, so green, so alive, yet so _dead_. Although he could hear and feel everything, and everything moved, he still felt like he was near a crime scene. He wasn’t supposed to be there, even if there wasn’t anyone there to reprimand him. The rocks that surrounded the river were slippery and with fungus covering them, he thought that maybe staying put was a better option. He sat down on slowly, scared of falling – the river didn’t look so deep, but there were _a lot_ of sharp rocks – but plainly ignored the feeling of wetness on his pants as he sat down.

He put his feet on the cold flowing water, and just stared as the river went by him, waiting for anything, and for what felt like hours, he looked down at his feet, but strangely, the skies kept their clear, bright color behind the leaves. He didn’t know where he was, or how he ended up there. He just assumed he was dreaming.

His face reflected on the water gave him some peace.

He took a deep breath, and for the first time in forever, he didn’t feel the heaviness on his lungs from smoking so much during a long time. His lungs were clear, his throat wasn’t raspy. There was no weight on his chest. He wasn’t breathing heavily. He then started to look at his own body, looking for his imperfections and scars, and was surprised that he found none (on his hands, and his arms anyway). His hands weren’t calloused, his nails looked perfect and _clean_. He _felt_ clean.

He looked at his thighs. They were covered by thin sweatpants. He wouldn’t take them off, but he wanted to. _God, how much he wanted to._

He could just shove his hands down his pants.

He wouldn’t, though. He chose the first option: to take them off.

He should take them off. He wanted to get in the water. Or so he told himself.

He put his hands on the waistband, stopping for a few seconds before going through with it. breathe in, breathe out. He took it off swiftly but didn’t motion to get in the water. Instead, he looked down his thighs. They were still scarred. Angry, straight lines still marked his skin. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed. His scar from the day he fell riding his bike after his mom let him go on two wheels was gone. The one he got on his left knee when he ran to his dad to hug him after a long day at work was gone, too. The one on his lip, from when he decided he had to have a lip piercing and made Ash pierce him while Charlie and Jo watched and it went horribly wrong, because he ended up with a bleeding lip and no piercing, was gone, too. Those were his favorites; they reminded him of his youth, his innocence, simpler times.

Why were the scars from those days gone, but the ugly ones weren’t?

If this was punishment, it was perfect. The perfect psychological terror. A reminder of all the wrong he’s done. Of how nothing can hurt him like he hurts himself.

He got into the water, feeling shivers down his spine as his lips trembled with how cold the water was. The river engulfed his entire body quickly, his senses drowned along with him as he put his whole body under the water. He opened his eyes underwater, and saw the rocks surrounding him. It was so easy to get lost. So easy to just drown. To breathe in underwater, flood his lungs. Easy to imagine how much it would _burn_.

He went back to the surface to breathe again.

Looking around him again, he couldn’t see any difference. It was still considerably quiet and still. He got out of the water and carefully made his way to the grass, away from the wet rocks. He sat down and stared at his body again. Still clear, white as a ghost. Pale. Ugly. Dean might have known why he still had _those_ scars. A reminder of how much he hated himself, of how _fragile_ this body was. How much he wished he could go deeper.

He put his hands on his face, wishing he hadn’t cut his nails so short. He wanted to rip his face off.

He wished the anger would wear off.

He stood there, letting numbness take over as the silence deafened him.

Until he heard it. A small laugh. Scorn.

_“Too much heart was_ always _his problem.”_

He still didn’t uncover his face, as he shivered in fear.

_“You wanted all your imperfections gone, once upon a time, Dean. I couldn’t let that happen, no.”_ The voice didn’t get any closer. _“I took all of your body scars. Aren’t you happy now, Dean? Aren’t you?”_

“No.”

 _“Of course, you aren’t, you ungrateful_ ape _. Nothing is ever enough for you lot, is it? Now, tell me, Dean, why do you think your self-harm scars are still there?”_

Dean took a deep breath as he uncovered his face and looked around. “You want to torture me.”

 _“Hah! No, nothing like that. I said I took your_ body _scars. Those? Those scars belong to your tainted, disgusting soul. He couldn’t save that. He desperately tried to put it back together, but he couldn’t contain the leaks. Dean, Dean, Dean. Did you know that he put you back together? Atom by atom, cell by cell. He would become stardust himself if it meant he could bring you back, that bloody idiot.”_

The voice, the entity, was still nowhere to be found. It was as if it was coming from _everywhere_ and _nowhere_ at the same time.

 _“He destroyed himself for you. He_ fell _for you. He fell from grace and then crawled from hell.”_

“Are you… are you talking about the devil?”

_“Lucifer? Oh no, dear. He is much more dangerous than Lucifer. He was mad. A mad man with a purpose much graver than Lucifer, who was perfectly sane when he fell. Now, tell me, human. What could you possibly have that’s so special?”_

“I-I don’t know. I don’t even know what’s after me. I’m sorry.”

The thing hummed. _“I’ll bet. You can’t know. He can’t have you. Not in this life, or the next one. You see, he was cursed. Cursed not to live as a human, nor as who he was, but in-between. An immortal.”_ The voice got louder, filled with disgust. _“He no longer found purpose in God, his father. He found no joy in observing from afar, as he was taken by you. He was tired of watching, so he gave into temptation, he rejected and denied salvation from religion, for he had found it in_ you _. He found salvation and redemption in_ one _human, and he was found on his knees, praying to thee. Chanting your name, as it tasted like rebellion to him, it was pure sin, although he would not let us say your name in vain like he did, Winchester.”_

Somehow, his name had sounded like an accusation. He felt heavy, he couldn’t know what they were talking about. “I don’t know what you want from me. I’m not a god.”

The voice laughed again, _“Oh, you are better than that. You’re human. You’re alive, you are not to be doubted. You exist. Can you imagine falling on your knees, praying for redemption from someone who’s_ just _a human? As simple as that. Someone that_ bleeds _, that_ hurts _, that can fill their lungs with oxygen and_ just be _?”_ it sighed, _“We were not designed for that, human. We were not made to love, to feel, to doubt, but to obey and follow. When one of us fell, we saw the aftermath, we never thought it would happen again. But Castiel fought. He fought each and every one of those who doubted, who fought against him and_ you _. They ripped you apart. He put you back together, piece by piece. Now tell me, human, what good was it for? You’re as broken as you were before.”_

Silence came again. He could tell he was alone. Solitude was screaming silently all around him, letting the coldness sweep his fragile bones. The wind went back to its normal velocity, making its way through the tree branches, making the noise it made a little more ominous. He couldn’t know what they wanted from his, as he didn’t know _how_ he got to be here in the first place. He wasn’t special. He was human; simple, fucked up and mad, but human. All he had was limited, from the air he breathed to the blood filling his body. How could he bring something so pure to fall from grace?

He didn’t want to be here anymore.

Waking up suddenly was getting really old. Looking at his window, the weather was still grey and dull, as he expected. Today Charlie would be here. He had to get up and be alive and aware.

He missed her like hell. He missed all his friends. He always misses them, but sometimes, he can’t do anything about it; can’t bring himself to get out of bed and be functional without getting stressed and angry and wanting to die. Can’t bring himself to text, or call. Get out of the house. God, how many times had he lost a job because of it?

Today wasn’t a bad day or a good day. It was just that: a day. Another day. Breathing was easy, his body was tired from spending so many hours hunched over his desk. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, not tears. This was a day he’d feel like a full person.

Later that day, Dean was sat on his sofa comfortably as his best friend talked throughout that episode of Buffy; he was listening (kind of) as he took in the details on the TV, and if you saw him crying over Angel and Buffy breaking up on her prom day, you’re lying. Charlie was lying down, her feet resting on his lap as they ate ice cream, her bright red hair falling down the couch’s arm rest. She talked excitedly; her mouth full of chocolate ice cream as she gestured with her free hand. Dean always thought she looked nice; warm and inviting, always so extroverted, even if she was quiet. Her smile was always encouraging and kind.

The TV showed Buffy crying on Willow’s lap as she said she couldn’t breathe from heartbreak. Dean could relate.

“Like… Dude, that’s not even good for plot. He just broke up with her over nothing!”

“As if they’d change their routines and themselves for each other.”

“I know, but like… she’s in high school, not like she had anything else to do.”

“She’s in high school and he’s bicentenary.”

“Oh, don’t take the high ground to pretend you aren’t _personally_ affected by this! And even if you weren’t, dude, she hangs out at cemeteries until bumfuck in the morning, so it’s not like she’d drastically change her routine.”

“Fine, fine! I still don’t think it’s a stupid reason. He left her alone, gave her peace and space. That’s more than what _I_ can ask for or deliberately have. Point is, Red: even if she adapted her routine completely to match his, her friends wouldn’t, her mom wouldn’t and there isn’t a lot of jobs you can get on night shift that isn’t minimum wage.”

“I don’t even ship them. Have you _seen_ Faith and Buffy?”

“Yes, I did. But I still like Bangel, screw you.”

“But hey, at least you might be part of something bigger! Reincarnation! Soulmates! Curses!”

“Now you’re just naming your favorite clichés.”

Charlie snorted and smiled at him. She shook her head and turned her eyes back to the TV. “We should do this more times.” She said softly.

Silence fell upon them comfortably; a silent agreement of ‘I love you’. When they finished the third season, they got up to buy dinner. Dean put on his coat and shoes, deciding it was best to, since it was getting colder. Charlie was in her pajamas; it was fuzzy, she was warm enough. She put on her shoes and followed suit.

They took the car and stopped at the Roadhouse, Dean was the one to get out and make their orders. Charlie opened her best smile and gave him a thumbs up for ‘taking one for the team’.

When they were younger, their weekends spent together were more frequent. Now, it was at least once a month, even if they mostly saw each other every day, because they work together. Thankfully, their D&D phase went way (or Dean’s phase, anyway).

When they got back, they sat on the couch again with their beers and burgers, catching up on Vikings. Charlie didn’t like it very much – “Dude, Lagertha is _hot_ , I hate Ragnar” – but she watched it whatsoever. Their weekend was spent like that; calm and quiet, fun, and peaceful.

At some point, Charlie started to yawn. She looked at him, in the manner a little sister would look at her brother as if she _knew_ something was wrong. Dean pretended he didn’t notice.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever look up the possibilities?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Everything sounds incredibly stupid.”

She turned her eyes to the TV again; she knew she didn’t have to answer that, even if it wasn’t final. She knew she couldn’t help, couldn’t really grasp the concept of _seeing_ , _feeling_ something for some _thing_ that they couldn’t know was real.

When Charlie met Dean, they were barely out of middle school. It was a hot summer day in Lawrence, they were sweating through their summer break, feeling nothing but sweat and discomfort. They sat under the trees at Centennial Park, hoping for wind and shadows from the trees that would loom over them. They were sharing the same shadow, eyes narrowed and breathing through their mouths. They looked at each other at the same time. Dean’s hair was soaked with sweat, his freckles shining under the small sunshine that went through the leaves. Charlie’s cheeks were a tinted shade of red – she wouldn’t tan, no, she’d just stay red – and her ginger hair up in a ponytail, as her overgrown bangs fell in her eyes.

She smiled at him; a small, tentative smile. He smiled back warmly. They nodded their heads at each other, and just sat side by side until one of them talked first. Charlie did.

13 years later, they still stood side by side. She understood him better than anyone, and never once doubted the veracity of his words when he told her he had strange dreams. She helped him through heaven and hell, looked into everything she could (legally or _not_ ), but came back empty. No lore could explain. Charlie even looked for the name Castiel in every country possible, and none of them resembled the thing Dean described.

Charlie looked at her best friend. He looked calm, completely vulnerable. Dean usually kept a macho bravado, always closed off in public places, his body language told everyone to stay away or they would absolutely suffer the consequences; he couldn’t remember a day Dean didn’t carry himself like that. He wasn’t exactly hostile, no. He was perfectly polite and sympathetic, everyone liked him, but they knew they shouldn’t press beyond ‘Hi how are you’. She thinks he’s a social vampire: only enters conversations when people invite him to it, then he’ll talk your ear off about _anything_. He’s always been like that, and she knows why. She understands. Before she can stop herself, she asks “Dean, do you ever think about what you could have had… if it wasn’t for, you know… Castiel?”

His expression hardens. “I did. I do.”

They leave it at that. Charlie still saw him as her big brother; he stayed by her side through the good and bad, never questioning if he should stay, he just did. When she lost her mother, he brought her to his house and laid her down on his bed as she wept quietly; he sat on a chair in front of his bed and read her The Hobbit. She stayed there the entire week, and Dean never once questioned it. He’d adapted his routine and his house for her to fit into. When Charlie met her girlfriend, Dean made sure to have a day free so he could meet the girlfriend who travels a lot. He made sure to express love in small ways, even in a mundane routine. He brings you your favorite chocolate because he thought you might like it. He brings extra food to work if he makes something one of his colleagues really likes. Small things that are actually _huge_ and always brighten your day. That was just who he was, and Charlie loved him.

“Did you dream anything new?”

“Yep.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No, but I’m going to. There was this thing, like, someone was there, and it wasn’t Castiel. He talked about me and him, how Castiel had to fall to stay with me, and apparently, I died or something? So, he had to put me back together, so he was cursed.”

“Um…”

“Yeah, that’s the shortened version. My point is that Castiel fell from grace. He chose _me_. The thing said something about rebellion, turning his back to God.”

“Dean. Oh my God, Dean”

“What?”

“Castiel is an angel!” she screamed.

“We looked for him, remember?”

“It might have been a mistranslation, something went wrong, but we now know what we’re looking for!”

“Don’t… don’t do that. Don’t give me hope.”

He managed to feel it, anyway.


End file.
